


A Balance Failed

by Jaywing157



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, England’s Just Worried, Freezing to death, Gen, Implied Insomia, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Nightmares, Not so Implied Drug Use, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sealand’s Just Tired, Self-Esteem Issues, Suicide Attempt, he tries his best, so tired
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-08-26 07:43:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16677451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaywing157/pseuds/Jaywing157
Summary: Sealand has always believed that, to be successful, there is a balance you have to reach. A balance between subtle and outgoing, straight forward and discreet.He could never find that balance.He’s tired. Tired of being scared, tired of being weak. Tired of being angry and upset. Tired of being tired.So Sealand does the one thing that he knows can do.He gives up.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There’s really not anything graphic, but I put a teen and up warning since it has to do with (very, very heavily implied) suicide.

* * *

It had become a fact in the micronations’ life that to be noticed, you had to go big. If you wanted to be acknowledged, you had to show that you were there and what you wanted. You had to work to get people’s attention, then work to keep it. You had to be a showman.  
But you also had to be a gentleman. Subtle. Affable. You had to go big, but you couldn’t shove yourself onto anyone either. Be easy to listen to.  
There was a balance. A balance that got easier to keep over time; easier with practice.  
A balance, Sealand thought, that most people don’t really get.  
Sealand stared into the brook, thick with dead plants and slush, as it ran under the hill, disappearing under a cluster of branches and brush.  
The hill was his place. _His_ place. He was sure England knew about it, but he doubted he cared about it much. It was a small hill, just on the outskirts of the wood, outside the garden England cared so much about.  
It was outside of England’s life. Unknown, or at least ignored, by everyone. Sealand grinned bitterly. He had a few things in common with the hill.  
England’s garden, even in winter, was alive. It was taken care of. It caught people’s attention with sweet scents and colorful flowers and cleverly trimmed hedges.  
The garden went big.  
Sealand liked it, of course he did; it was a beautiful garden. But at the same time, it annoyed him. There was nothing new to it. It was always the same flowers, the same hedges, the same sweet scents every year. He would look at it, wanting to see something different, but would instead see the same things he always saw.  
The garden put itself out there. It wasn’t subtle at all, and so had nothing to hide.  
But his hill was different. It was quiet and brown, and you could always hear the bubbling of the brook that ran right beneath it that refused to freeze in winter, and slush would run down, taking whatever was in said slush with it into the brook.  
There were tiny animals and plants everywhere, but only if you hunted them out. Otherwise they hid away from view, and you could only hear them or see what they left behind.  
The hill was subtle. It was often overlooked.  
Sealand had often heard China say that nature was balanced. It was perfect the way it was. But it didn’t seem very balanced.  
Most things were either boring to look at or hard to see at all.  
He pulled his sweater closer. It had gotten colder since he had been out, but he had only brought the sweater. He wished he had brought a scarf, or some gloves.  
He knew he should be getting in soon, especially as he glanced at his phone, a bright four-forty-five glowing at him.  
He had gone out at four.  
He shivered as he was blasted by wind from behind. This time he couldn’t blame the animals for hiding— he wished he could do the same. He wanted to snuggle into the grass and leaf piles, burying himself in a leafy blanket.  
He wondered if England had missed him yet. He hadn’t said goodbye; he hadn’t wanted to. England had been busy with his needlepoint, and the last time he had bothered England while he was working, he had been snapped at.  
It usually didn’t matter, but he didn’t feel like arguing now. He was tired.  
He had been a good showman. He had been friendly, always trying to put on a show. Always tried to make friends, to make allies.  
He smiled to himself as he thought of the other micronations. Wy was cool. She was nice, and he could always count on her to get a job done. Sure, she could be snappy, but in an endearing way. In a sassy way, like Iceland and Hong Kong.  
Seborga was as nice as his brothers, and was the best chef. Maybe not the smartest, but his heart was in the right place. Molossia and Hutt River were both wonderfully weird and confusing. And kuglemugle...he struggled to find words to describe him. He was in a class all his own.  
It was when he thought of Ladonia that he really fought the lump in his throat. Ladonia hated him. Sealand didn’t know why, but it was painfully obvious. He liked Ladonia, though, and he would do anything for him, even if it wasn’t mutual.  
Again Sealand stared into the brook. Some of the slush had melted and some dead plants had gotten loose, and were now tangled in the branches farther down. The water was a little clearer now.  
He had been a showman, but had still never gotten a balance. Maybe he was too subtle?  
He thought of all the times he had snuck into a meeting, or when he would sneak up behind nations, attempting to kidnap them. All the times he had asked for armadas and artillery and toys, and gotten upset when he didn’t get them.  
Half of him always knew that he wouldn’t, but he would ask anyway. And even though he never threw a tantrum or got upset in front of others, when he was alone he did. He hated it, but he did.  
Maybe he wasn’t subtle at all, because none of that sounded very discreet.  
Staring into the brook again, he sat back down into the snow. It was cold, but he was already cold anyway, and didn’t see any point in trying to get warm again.  
Sealand jumped when his phone buzzed. He looked at the time, seeing the bright four-fifty-seven beside the message.  
It was from England.  
“Where are you?” It read. He almost laughed. England just now realized he was gone? It had been nearly an hour.  
Sealand was tired. His eyes felt heavy, and every cell seemed to weigh him down, farther into the snow. He knew there was supposed to be a balance. But he also knew, despite what all the inspirational speakers said, a lot of people never found that balance. A lot of Micronations sure didn’t.  
He would miss them, but he hoped they found what he hadn’t. He had failed, but they still had a chance. Again his phone vibrated.  
“Sealand, where are you? Dinner’s going to be ready soon, so please get here.”  
Dinner. Was he hungry? He didn’t feel like it, but he knew he had to be. He had eaten a toaster waffle for breakfast, but nothing for lunch. He had felt too sick to eat.  
Now it was five o’three.  
He relaxed into the snowy hill. The snow, he thought, was like a pillow. A big, soft, fluffy pillow made from snowflake thread and sewing needles of ice. He let go of his sweater and closed his eyes.  
He wanted to sleep. Sleep was something he never seemed to get enough of. Every night was the same now: Tell England he was going to bed at nine, go lie down and try to sleep, then fail to sleep.  
That was another thing he liked about the brook more so than the garden. At night, the garden would go to sleep. It was dark, save for the lanterns England had put up, and nothing was there. Just the plants that were so uniform, uniform but alive, yet looked dead. The garden slept like it was dead.  
But the hill slept differently.  
At night, if you went to the hill, you could get the quiet buzz of insects and the gurgle of the brook. It was dark, darker than the garden by far, but it was alive. Animals scurried about, nocturnal ones that you would never see in the day, and Sealand would feel glad to see them.  
They were the animals that few people payed attention to, and that was relatable.  
His phone vibrated.  
“Sealand, I’ve got some McDonald’s from town. It’s getting cold, so please get back in here,” it said. Ten after five.  
by now Sealand had started to let go. The cold seeping into his bones was a fuzzy, warm feeling, if only for a second, that helped him ignore the constant ache that came with it.  
The cold air burned his throat and lungs so that every breath hurt. He started to think about getting up, but knew it wouldn’t work. The hazy cloud in his mind let him remember just enough to know that he was too close to sleep to try and get up now. If he tried to walk, he would pass out anyway, just from higher up.  
So he didn’t try to move.  
He didn’t hate England, or anyone. Not even TRNC. He hadn’t done any of it out of hate.  
But he was tired. Tired of being upset, of being angry. Tired of being scared and weak. Tired of being _tired_.  
If by some miracle someone actually got upset, then oh well. He had tried.  
He had tried to be a showman and show everyone what he could do— he failed. He tried to be subtle and be understanding— he failed.  
The brook was mostly clear by now, he saw ,as he opened his eyes one last time to see the brook. The hill. His special place.  
Would England ever even find him? He doubted he would ever think to look by the little hill. The hill that always went unnoticed.  
Almost asleep, his phone vibrated once more.  
“Sealand, where are you? It’s twenty after five, and you usually answer me, are you alright?”  
It had already been ten minutes? It hadn’t even felt like five.  
He had just closed his eyes when he heard a familiar song. He had always loved Carramelldansen, and loved to play it just to annoy Ladonia.  
He knew it was England, and he weakly picked it up, but didn’t answer it. He didn’t want to.  
He didn’t want to answer questions, but he did want to hear England. Not to hear him rant. Not to hear him apologize or say it’s not too late. He just wanted to hear his voice.  
On the third ring he answered it.  
“Sealand? Sealand, where the hell are you?” England sounded strained, but not as angry as he expected. His tongue felt thick and heavy in his mouth, but he forced out a quiet noise that he wasn’t even sure was audible.  
“Hey, jerk.”  
“Where are you?”  
“Somewhere.”  
Sealand heard a frustrated groan. He closed his eyes again and a small smile formed on his lips.  
“Care to tell me where the somewhere is?”  
“Paradise.”  
He settled deeper in the snow. The ache was gone, replaced by a heavy numb feeling. He wasn’t thinking of anything besides that voice that was so painfully familiar.  
“You’re not helpi—“  
“I love you,” Sealand cut him off. It was the truth. He didn’t hate anyone at all. He just wanted it all to stop. He didn’t hear anything and he began to slip back to sleep. Everything was fuzzy and dreamy,and bright and light, but dark and heavy, and so conflicting yet calm. It was peaceful.  
“Sealand, what’s wrong?”  
He would have laughed if it didn’t scorch his throat. One “I love you” and he automatically assumes something was wrong. Harsh.  
“Noth...nothing’s wrong. Just... just...”  
“Sealand. what the hell’s wrong?”  
Sealand felt his mind go numb along with everything else and his breathing slowed. The gurgle of the brook faded out, so the only thing he focused on was England’s voice.  
“Bye... England. You jerk, I love you. You... you know that...right?”  
“Of course I know that, which is why—“  
“Bye.”

                                                                 ❧

England’s breath hitched. He didn’t like that silence. Silence was not supposed to come from Sealand, happy shouts and laughing was.  
“ _Bye_.”  
That quiet, hoarse word that stopped his world. Sealand didn’t say bye. He said hello, not goodbye.  
It was only then did England notice how heavily the snow was falling and how Sealand’s plate, left from lunch, was still full of food.  
But the thing that scared him the most was the little white bottle, upturned and empty, sitting on the ground beneath the table.

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, this did not come out on Tuesday like I had planned. But either way, Tuesday or now, it's out, and I hope you enjoy.

To hell with hospitals. Let their bland white ceilings and walls burn forever. Make their stale coffee sizzle away; let fire burn away the stench of rubbing alcohol and cleaning products. And let the nurses burn with everything else.

“To hell with it all,” Sealand whispered under his breath, trying his best not to open his eyes. He was supposed to be asleep. Maybe if he closed his eyes long enough, he could trick his brain into thinking he was asleep, and if his brain thought he was asleep, then he was asleep. Simple enough.

But no matter what he did, he could not keep his eyes closed. They did not want to close. His body had a mind of its own; a mind that seemed to hate the real one. It rebelled against everything his brain wanted to do, and since he wanted to sleep, of course his body refused to let him do that.

Part of him believed it was because the hospital. The hospital with its sterile stench, open-backed gowns and annoyingly nice nurses. There were too many distractions. Too many unnerving nurses coming to check on him. And the temperature. 

It was cold. Not cold enough to make him shiver, but cold enough for it to be uncomfortable. It was in the middle of freezing and lukewarm; the purgatory of temperature.

Purgatory was hell, too.

And the hospital didn’t have England. He knew it had to have been England who found him, who brought him here. But he wasn’t here now. The room was dark and lonely, and Sealand wished that someone, even the creepy nurses, would come in.

He wondered what time it was. He didn't have a clock to check, and his phone was nowhere to be seen.

He finally gave up on sleep when he heard a knock on the door. He knew it wasn’t a nurse, though– this knock was slower, heavier. He could tell the nurses by their quick, short raps.

He didn't say come in. His voice still grated in his throat, like he was still  breathing in snow and ice.

He didn't say come in, but someone did anyway. The creaky door swung open, hitting the wall. Even against the room’s dim light, he could easily make out England standing in the doorway.

“Sealand,” he said, clearing his throat. “Glad you’re awake.”

Sealand could have laughed. He almost did.  _ “Glad you’re awake.”  _ He didn’t  _ want  _ to be awake. He wanted to be asleep, to not be so tired that his eyes drooped and burned like they were being blasted with sunlight. England was glad, but Sealand sure wasn’t.

He tried to find a snarky comeback, but decided against it when another breath scorched his throat. So instead he nodded, leaning back into his pillow.

“Not going to talk to me? Again?” England sighed. He sat in the chair across from Sealand’s bed. It was an ugly yellow one that in itself wanted to make Sealand turn away, but he didn't. He just looked at England.

He stared at him, slightly hurt. He didn’t want to ignore him, he just didn't want to talk. What was so wrong with that? 

He forced a breath, quiet and fast. “I can’t.”

England’s star bore into him. “Why?”

He didn't want to talk, why didn't he get that? “It hurts.”

He heard England scoff, and he felt his own cheeks heat up. “You mean it hurts worse than freezing yourself?”

Sealand flinched, shocked. He had expected a few things from England. Asking him why, of course, was the biggest one. He expected him to say sorry, too. Or maybe ask him how he got melatonin in the first place. He even expected a little anger. But not this.

England sounded accusatory, his tone harsh. He scowled. “Still not talking?”

Sealand clenched his fists. He didn't  _ want  _ to talk.”No,” he whispered.

England slumped into his ugly chair, refusing to look at him. “You really were stupid to do that, you know? You’re a personification. You can’t die,” he spat.

Sealand had wondered whether he could actually die. He was only a micronation, after all. But he was still a personification, and with that came immortality. Stupid immortality. He had hoped that, on that secluded little hill, no one would find him until either it was too late, or he woke up with no consequences. He had hoped for the former.

“I thought–”

“You thought what? That you could get off that easy? That you could just fail and give up? Pathetic, really,” England said. He stood up, walking so he hovered over Sealand. Sealand wanted a nurse. Or a cleaning lady. Or one of those people who brought him the terrible food. He wanted someone to come in and help him, to get that bastard  _ out.  _ He waited with bated breath, but there were no knocks to the door.

Sealand wiggled under England’s gaze. He pulled his blankets up and frowned, turning away. 

“Pathetic.”

Trying to ignore the grating, he said softly, “No, I’m not. I’m Sealand.”

“Weak.”

He felt tears, partly from hurt and partly from fear, sting his eyes.

“You failed, you know.”

Sealand tried to blink them away, but they kept coming back. He held them in.

“You can’t even be a micronation right– and how hard is that, really?”

_ Harder than you think,  _ he said silently.

“You’re always so  _ annoying–  _ do you ever shut up?”

_ He’s right,  _ Sealand thought, remembering his rule about balance. The one he had failed. He was annoying.

“No wonder the others avoid you.”

_ Shut up.  _ Sealand wasn’t going to cry. Crying would show him he was weak, and even if he was weak, he couldn’t show it. He was Sealand. 

He couldn’t cry.

“I’m surprised Sweden decided to keep you, to be honest.”

_ Sweden.  _ He hadn’t thought of Sweden, not yet. Sealand wondered if he even knew. What would Sweden think? Would he regret letting him stay with the Nordics, and kick him out?

No one wanted a failure.

“I bet he felt bad for you. Like a stray dog he found on the street,” England laughed. Sealand looked in fear – something he hadn’t felt from England in a long while – at his smile, menacing and cold. It was a smile, and it was real, not fake. It wasn’t one of those fake smiles. It was real, and that sent a shudder down his body.

“A mutt. Ha… you’re a stray. A mistake that no one wants!” 

Sealand gasped as England grasped his gown collar and pulled him up. His fingers were cold against his skin, and he tried to wiggle away. Scowling, England pulled him closer, higher.

His collar caught his throat, making it harder to breathe. He gasped, throat still burning, for air, terror creeping into his brain as the collar was pulled tighter.

England looked him dead in the eye.

“Too bad you messed up, really. We all would have been better off without a  _ failure  _ like you.”

Sealand heaved, panicked at the lack of oxygen. He was fine with dying, but he wanted to do it to himself. He wanted to die, not be killed. If he was killed, that would mean he couldn’t even die correctly.

And dying, he reminded himself, was rather straightforward. You do or you don’t.

He let tears spill over his cheeks. He didn’t care if England saw him cry.

He cried out meekly, collar still around his throat, for someone,  _ anyone. _

Sweden.

Latvia.

An annoying nurse.

_ Anyone. _

He cried as dark spots danced around his vision, blocking out England and the rest of the room. His head felt heavy, and his eyes burned. He let go, and let himself sleep, if only to get away from England.

  
  


Sealand’s eyes snapped open and he shot up, breath ravaging his throat. Fear ran through his brain as he scanned the room, looking for England.  _ Where was he? _

He looked around the room, at the light shining under the room’s door, at the covered platter that hadn’t been there before, at the machine tracking his heartbeat. He looked at the chair in front of his bed that wasn’t yellow anymore.

It was red.

He hadn’t changed rooms, though, so it had to be the same chair. So why was it red?

The realization dawned on him almost painfully. It had been a dream. England had never been there, and he had never choked him. He had never said those things, at least that he knew of. And the chair had never been yellow. He chuckled to himself. Where had he gotten yellow from?

His laugh died away when he realized something else. To dream, he had to have been asleep.

But if had slept, why was he still so tired?

His eyes still burned, and his head was still cloudy. Everything still hurt, and it still felt like he was being weighed down. Sleeping hadn’t helped.

He cried out softy. He had managed to sleep, at least for a little while, and  _ nothing was better. _

He jumped when he heard a quick rap at the door. It was quick, and the door soon opened, but not hard enough to hit the wall. He watched, intent, as a short woman slipped in with a smile.

“Hey,” she said with a singsong voice. “You eaten yet?”

Sealand shook his head ‘no.’ He hadn’t even known the tray was there. She nodded, then turned to leave. But she didn’t, he noticed, and instead she turned to him.

“Your, er… big brother, I think? He’s been outside for a while. Just kinda sitting. Like, for a while now,” she said.

Sealand looked at her. England was there? Why didn’t he come in?

He shuddered as he remembered the dream. The smile, so chilling but so real, and the pressure against his throat. He didn’t know if he wanted him to come in so much anymore.

He nodded.

“Want me to see if he wants to come in?”

Did he?

He thought for a while. It  _ was  _ lonely, even with the lady. Her smile was still too big– too big for her face.

So he shrugged. She scowled, but soon her smile came back and she swung open the door, leaving.

It was quiet again, and he was left alone.

_ Pathetic. _

He flinched. England didn’t really think that, right?

_ Weak. He was a failure. _

He had failed at everything.

_ Why did Sweden even keep him? _

He didn’t know why.

_ Stray. He was a stray.  _

He was alone.

Sealand’s eyes brimmed with tears, but he blinked them away. If England did end up coming in, he couldn’t be caught crying. Not dream England, not real England.

He heard the door unlatch and open. He grimaced, then “Hey, England.”

“England? Sorry kid, no England here.”

Sealand looked up in to see Denmark with a wide smile at the foot of the bed. His eyes widened in surprise. Denmark was definitely not England.

“Hej! I see you’re up and all, that’s good,” he smiled. When Sealand didn’t say anything, Denmark continued. He sat in the chair, slinging his arm over the back.

“Yeah, Sve and everyone will be here in a little while. There was a small incident with Norway and Iceland getting carsick, and, well… I’m just glad I brought my car, too,” Denmark chuckled to himself, and Sealand didn’t want to think about just what may have happened.

“What time is it?” Sealand forced it out. He still didn't have a clock.

Denmark glanced at his phone. “Ten-thirty.”

“At night?”

“Yup.”

He hadn't known it was that late. 

“So…” Denmark continued. “Nice place.” He had a sarcastic edge to his voice.

Sealand let a small grin on his face, and despite his throat, managed: “Top-off-the-line service, right?” Denmark chuckled at that, then coughed into his shirt. 

Sealand hated awkward silences. Those silences when you just didn't know what to say, and the wrong thing could wreck everything.

Denmark’s phone  _ dinged,  _ and after checking it, he looked at Sealand. “Well, they’re in the lobby, coming up now.”

The silence held after that, and Sealand didn't want to break it. He wondered just when the other Nordic would be there. Not long, obviously, but that was still vague.

He wondered if England would come. He wondered why the Nordics bothered to come at all.

And as he was in the middle of running a mental list of reasons why England wasn't there, the door opened and five people burst in, nearly knocking Denmark out of his ugly red chair.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, not a whole lot happened plot wise, but this ended up being a kind of trigger for things later. And a defining character moment for Sealand that may or may not make sense later. Next chapter should have more plot development though, so until next time :)

**Author's Note:**

> Should I continue this? If I do, It may be a few more chapters or maybe just one. But they would be about the aftermath, whether Sealand actually dies, and how balance is found once again. Sound good?


End file.
